


Escalation

by LMX



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Post-Avengers (2012), Community: avengerkink, Disability, Kid Fic, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, secret badasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMX/pseuds/LMX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's been adopted by the lamest couple ever. Clint doesn't walk all that good, or hear all that good, and Phil is balding and middle aged and a pencil-pusher, and when Peter imagined who would be adopting him he always imagined this couple who were young, and cool, and had these awesome well paying jobs, and he loves the guys, really he does, but sometimes he wishes that was what he got.</p>
<p>A reality check follows.</p>
<p>Note: Warning for bullying and ableism</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escalation

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy the ubiquitous Peter Parker-is-everyone's-kid trope, this fic features Peter Parker. If you do not, then it features an OC of about 12 who looks vaguely like Andrew Garfield would have done at that age.
> 
> The majority of the summary is from the original Avengerskink prompt.
> 
> Gratuitous thanks to Mizzy for useful suggestions, along with everyone who commented on this in its original form for encouragement.

The letter in Peter's bag felt like it weighed more than it should, and the worst thing was he knew he couldn't get away with not giving it to one of his Dads. Adoptive or not, he did love them both, and the situation wasn't something he could really blame on them in good conscience.

Problem was... Well, the problem was parents evenings at his school were supposed to be social gatherings for the parents - coffee and tea laid out in the main hall while they waited for their turn to talk to the teachers, or while they commiserated with the other parents about what the teachers had to say about their kids.

And okay, so he'd told his teacher there was no way Clint could make it, because the bus didn't run late enough to get home afterwards, and he couldn't walk all the way home even if Peter could, and Phil normally worked late, and he had to commute home from the city and he was always tired when he got in...

And it was all true (technically), even if some of it was really stretching. Even if Phil only worked part time since he'd 'retired', and most nights he got in long before seven, and he could probably pick Clint up even if he couldn't make it to parents evening himself.

Really he just didn't want his parents interacting with the rest of the school at all. It wasn't like the teachers were going to tell them anything they didn't already know. 

CPS had raised a lot of fuss over the adoption to start out - this was something Peter hadn't been aware of until after he'd met the men who wanted to take him home, after he'd got to know them and had a fostering period and started the paperwork. That was when the social workers had sat him down for a 'serious chat' - him and a panel of adults all giving him serious looks. They were worried that he was being adopted just so that he could play nursemaid to a disabled guy, so that Phil could go back to work and not need to worry about Clint at home on his own. They wanted him to see a young carers advisor and a shrink, and to write weekly reports back to the youth service so that they could keep a track on him.

Peter had never seen Clint so angry - before or since - as when some senior social worker made a house visit and tried to accuse him of that to his face. It had been the first time he'd ever really thought of Clint as disabled, having it all laid out in front of him like that, and maybe that was stupid because he had a cane almost all of the time outside the house and he couldn't hear much at all, but he was just... Clint, really. He barely missed anything so long as you were looking right at him when you spoke, and in the house he just bumbled around slowly and bounced off furniture sometimes and that was just the way he was.

The worst thing about that whole visit - and maybe all the ones since - was that it put an uncomfortable pit in his stomach. He *liked* Clint, and he liked Phil too. They'd been really good about letting him decide when - or if, even - he decided to start calling them anything other than their names. They'd never asked him to do anything more than take his turn washing the dishes and to clean his room, and when Phil talked in sign he spoke out loud too, even if it was a private conversation, and if Clint wasn't up to taking the bus with him to school Phil took him in the car and it was just a non-issue.

But suddenly there was a tension - if Clint fell when the social worker was there, would that be enough for them to take him away? Would they look badly on it if he took Clint his dinner in bed on one of the days he was feeling bad?

Clint had to look to Phil for clarification because the social worker was nervous and talking too fast, and Peter felt like he was going to be sick.

This hadn't been something he'd anticipated with adoption. In his head the kind of people who adopted kids like him were young and sporty, maybe on a ranch or out by the sea. Interesting people who'd have the time and money to share their interests with him, take him on elaborate holidays, visit amazing places.

It hadn't bothered him that they were both guys, even though the social workers kept asking him if it did - don't worry, you can be honest with us, we won't judge you for your opinion here - it kind of made sense, really.

But he hadn't expected to end up living with two men a bit older than middle-aged, one retired on medical grounds and the other taking early retirement to help his partner rehabilitate. And he really hadn't expected them to be so... utterly boringly normal; from what they ate to how they dressed, to the things they thought would be fun after school or on the weekends.

Clint had been in some kind of military service - Peter had never asked which because even though Clint had never been touchy talking about his injury, Peter wasn't sure he wanted to test the limits of that - and Phil was some kind of... admin, or something. Maybe HR.

Phil had gone back to working part time with his old job not long after Peter had come to live with them, after a long and careful discussion of how that would (or wouldn't, more to the point) affect Peter and the two of them making sure that Peter knew he could ask for more of Phil's time at any point. Peter had never before or since rolled his eyes as often as he did through that discussion. Mostly Phil left some time during the day while Peter was at school and Clint was at the archery club. He was back not long after Peter got home from school, and he spent the evenings doing paperwork in his study, Peter doing his homework on the spare desk across from him.

Peter had a desk in his room, but that was his time with Phil, and he did feel a little thrill every time Phil glanced over and asked him a question about what he was doing, like it was just as important as the work on his own side of the desk.

At first, Clint had taken the bus down to Peter's school with him, then walked to the archery range where he had a volunteer job as an instructor. Once he was sure Peter was settling in, he'd started getting off two stops earlier, directly outside the range. Peter had felt pretty guilty he'd been making Clint walk back the half mile just so Peter could ignore him as he walked into school every day.

It might have been embarrassing to need supervision getting to school, except Clint had been pretty good at taking the seat behind Peter instead of the one next to him, so as soon as he had a few familiar faces he could share the ride in with them, and pretend he wasn't being walked to school by his adoptive Dad.

Thing was, it didn't take the kids long to work out that Clint was pretty deaf, especially with the bus' far-from-tuned engine whining away, and that coupled with the cane and his awkward walk made him a pretty prime target for mockery. Peter could convince himself it wasn't doing any harm, even if he joined in with the others - Clint didn't know it was going on, more often than not he had a book out for the journey, so all they were really doing was entertaining themselves.

But to claim him - the butt of all their jokes - as his Dad, to have him amble in with the other parents and have all the volunteer kids see the name tag and know exactly who he was. That was going to sting. His social standing might never recover from such a blow, not that it was very high as he stood.

And in his bag, right at this moment, there was a letter explaining that if required, the school could offer assisted transport to and from the event, and that they could provide a sign-language interpreter, but one of Peter's guardians needed to attend at least one parent-teacher conference this year or Peter's social worker would be contacted.

\--

He was waiting for the bus in amongst a cluster of kids he was starting to recognise. He hadn't really made that many friends yet, but he'd sat next to Brodie on the bus a handful of times, and they'd talked about an annoying teacher once while they waited for the bus to come, so he guessed that classed him as a friend. Also Brodie was into comics - the fantasy kind, all Batman and Superman, not the commercial propaganda-y Captain America or The Avengers titles which Phil collected like some kind of creep - they were so lame. Anyway, when they were waiting for the bus Brodie was pretty good at letting Peter read them over his shoulder.

Brodie was reading The Losers today - he thought he was pretty good on the computer, and had been caught googling hacking techniques in IT. Peter thought he'd have more respect for his attempts to imitate Jake Jensen if he hadn't done it logged in to his own school account.

The bus was still five minutes away when a bright red something-cool-looking with a Dodge badge pulled up at the stop. It took Peter a good couple of minutes admiring the car to realise it was *Clint* in the driver's seat, leaning across the passenger seat and grinning at him, and to get his brain back in gear.

He folded himself into the sport seat, feeling unreasonably small in the big car as Clint pulled away from the bus stop. He spent a minute taking in the hand controls, leaning around to see how they worked, taking in the blanking plate over the pedals and the spinner knob on the steering wheel. This must have been what Clint was spending his nights working on, while Phil and Peter did their homework together.

Clint looked pleased as punch as Peter finished tracking levers and sat back in his seat, grin on his face the biggest Peter had ever seen. "So what do you think?" he asked, glancing across into the passenger seat, "It's pretty cool, huh?"

Peter watched Clint brake for the corner, accelerate back up to speed as they headed out of town. The engineering was pretty cool, but he waited for Clint to have his eyes back on the road before muttering- "You're so far from cool," at the dash.

Clint glanced back at him, still grinning like a loon. "I am too cool," he objected, and Peter was momentarily stumped. Realisation came a moment later, spotting the matte skin-coloured blobs in Clint's ears, tubing disappearing over the top and the little unit behind his ear more or less hidden between his ear and his hair.

"Hearing aids?" he asked. "What's the occasion?" He'd never seen Clint wear any kind of hearing aid - he'd mostly assumed either he couldn't wear them or they wouldn't help. If they worked, he couldn't help but think with a spike of frustration, they would have been useful in dealing with idiotic social workers.

Clint ran his thumb across the one closest to Peter, re-seating it slightly before he had to brake for the next corner. "I don't like wearing them much," he admitted. "When I stopped working there didn't seem to be much point. I mean... we do alright, don't we?" Clint shot him a glance, and he shrugged neutrally in reply, still stinging at the perceived notion that his social worker meetings had never earned this honour.

"So why today?" Peter asked the side of Clint's face, feeling awkward not having Clint's eyes on his mouth. Clint glanced at him again, his own smile tentative.

"Maybe I just wanted to hear the car?" he said, over-revving as he pulled away from the next corner and making the car roar. He shook his head, grinning back in Peter's direction. "I like hearing about your day, Petey, and this is our time after school before Phil gets home. We've got a drive ahead of us, and lip-reading's harder to do in a car. So... hearing aids."

Peter thought about that for a bit, trying to decide whether that was acceptable or not, whether he was still annoyed Clint hadn't pulled out the mystery hearing aids when they were being bothered by asshole social workers. "Where are we going?" he asked, reserving judgement for now, as they pulled onto the road leading out of town.

"Lola's in the shop, and Phil was talking about taking a bus home. We're gonna surprise him."

"We're going into the city?" Peter asked, with a rush of excitement mostly overruling the annoyance, "That's where Dad works, right?"

"Yup. And it's rush hour, so this might not be the most fun outing we've ever had. Sorry," Clint grimaced.

"But wait. Can we go to the Met? There might be time to... And we could get dinner at La Caridad. Clint, Clint, please. I *love* New York, and I miss it. Can we just..."

"Slow down, Petey," Clint interrupted, going quiet as he merged with the already traffic-heavy interstate. "OK, so... I missed some of that, but..." Clint held up his hand briefly as Peter started to repeat himself. "But I got the gist. We'll see what state Phil's in, and we'll see about spending some time in the city. There'll be time for dinner, minimum. I promise."

"Yes!" Peter tried not to punch the roof of Clint's car as he fist-pumped the air.

The excitement trailed off fairly quickly as the traffic jammed up and they slowed to a crawl. Peter pulled his assigned reading out of his school bag, pushing the letter deeper out of sight, and settled in. They were most of the way into town, the traffic thinning as people filtered off, when Clint made an odd choked noise and there was a cacophony of horns and squealing tyres around them.

Peter looked out of the windscreen only to find all the drivers around them staring straight out across the city, some of them pointing and waving and hardly any eyes on the road. Peter tracked their gazes out and saw almost immediately what was drawing their attention, the traffic pulling to an uneven halt.

There was an uncertain moment as Peter watched Clint's knee jump in place, trying to brake, before he muttered what Peter was fairly sure was a swear under his breath and pushed hard on the lever. They skidded to an abrupt stop, both staring up through the windscreen as Clint knocked the car into park.

"Is that a mothership?" Peter asked breathlessly, taking in the hulk of machinery hovering in the far distance. "Is it another invasion?"

"Peter, pull out your phone," Clint said, already texting on his own phone. Peter was finding it hard to take his eyes off the ship over the New York skyline. "Call your Dad, tell him what we can see, alright?"

"Why does Dad need to know?" Peter asked, glancing at the opposite carriageway at the streams of cars fleeing the city. "Can't we just..."

"Dad's at *work* Peter," Clint said, his voice strained. "He's out under that, and he doesn't have transport."

Peter glanced back and forth between Clint and the ship. "You're not seriously... you're going to go towards..." The call connected in his hand and he pressed his cell to his ear.

"Tell me you're not where your cell says you are," were Phil's first words. It was against a backdrop of shouting and what sounded worryingly like a helicopter.

"We came to pick you up from work," Peter offered weakly. "Have you seen..."

"Are you in Clint's car? Of course you are, I should have known he'd..." Phil stopped talking, and the background noise went tinny. "Look, you and Clint need to go home, Petey. Now. No questions. Turn around and go home."

Clint finished whatever he was doing on his own phone, throwing it onto the dash and putting the car back into drive. "Phil, the helicarrier is visible over New York," he shouted at Peter's cell, grimacing an apology as Peter flinched a little at the volume. Around them, cars were going the wrong way down the road as the stream of traffic turned into a panic-snarled traffic jam.

Phil had gone quiet, and the shouting had dropped off but the helicopter sound was louder. Peter was watching Clint dodge traffic and pedestrians as he headed further into the city. The roads were getting quieter as the majority of the traffic cleared, but people were stood in the middle of the street, looking up into the sky.

"Dad?" Peter asked, "You still there?"

"Peter, you need to get out of the city," Phil sounded breathless now. "Can you tell that to Clint please?"

"Dad says we need to get out of the city," Peter recited at Clint. "He sounds pretty serious."

"Yeah, well. I'm shit at following orders, he should know that by now." It was loud enough to carry through the phone, and on the other end Phil replied with- "Damnit, Clint, you've got our son in the car," muttered away from the handset.

Peter swallowed down the twist of emotion, and decided not to repeat that to Clint. It obviously wasn't something Phil had intended to be heard.

Clint made a thinking-noise, then screwed up his nose and glanced at Peter again. He cleared his throat and said; "Phil, I've got four UFOs in sight - looking biological, insect-like. Huh, make that seven, maybe more on the other side of the helicarrier."

Peter looked out, trying to make out the UFOs Clint had spotted. He didn't see them, but he did see Iron Man shoot out from between two buildings and spin across the sky towards the thing Clint was calling the helicarrier. Peter resisted the urge to jump up and down in his seat and point in excitement.

"Clint, we have teams on the ground for this," Phil said, exasperated in Peter's ear.

He knew he was probably supposed to repeat it back for Clint, but he couldn't help but ask; "Dad, what do you mean teams? What's going on?"

"I'm sorry Petey, we will explain everything later, I promise. But I need to work and you need to get..." The phone signal hissed and died.

"Dad?" Peter asked once, futilely, and then once again looking at the phone's screen showing no call in progress. "He said they have teams already working on it," he told Clint, his fear for Phil suddenly outweighing his fear for himself. "But his call cut out... He just wanted us to get out of the city. We're not leaving him here, are we? We can still get him and get away before... He said he was working, Clint! How can work be more important than an ALIEN INVASION!?"

As if to punctuate Peter's ever more hysterical point, a Cranefly twice the size of Clint's car - long insectile body, long filmy wings and huge spindly legs - crashed into the street in front of them, buckling the surface and leaving Clint thrutching for the brake again before remembering to push the lever. They screeched to a halt beneath one of the thing's legs, and Clint threw the car into reverse just as the thing thrashed and kicked a black exoskeleton-clad leg through the bonnet.

The car died with a pitiful rattle, and Clint twisted past Peter to pull his bow case out of the back seat. He left Peter staring after him and he nearly threw himself out of the car, bow drawn before he was properly balanced, two arrows materialising on the string.

"Clint, what are you..." Peter started, shouting out of the open door. "You can't shoot a giant alien with ARROWS!"

Only, apparently Clint could. As people ran screaming from their cars, trucks rumbled past them and a helicopter hovered overhead, Clint pushed away from the car, straightened, and in one shot took out one leg and a filmy wing. The thing crashed to the floor, long body squirming, its remaining legs thrashing around.

Clint ducked back against the car, whether for balance or cover Peter couldn't quite tell. A flailing leg smashed through the windscreen, showering Peter with glass and leaving him to scramble out the other side of the car.

He crouch-shuffled around the back of the car until he could look around at the insect as Clint pulled another two arrows out of a quiver Peter hadn't seen. This time Clint put one in the thing's eye and another in a joint in its armoured torso.

The legs flailed out again, and as Clint tried to dodge, the buckled tarmac tripped him and he went crashing to the floor. Without thinking too hard, Peter jumped forwards, grabbing the back of Clint's shirt and pulling him back behind the cover of the car as he scrambled to get back on his feet.

"Did it get you?" Peter demanded, raising his voice to compete with the helicopter overhead.

A solid impact rocked the car, making them both flinch. "You alright?" Clint asked, more than likely not even hearing Peter's question. He didn't wait for a reply to his own, though, his eyes going up to the 'copter and a grin taking over his face. "Here's your Dad," he said, and it didn't make any sense, but when Peter looked up, he found Phil - still in the immaculate suit he'd left in that morning - rappelling out of the helicopter.

He was on them both the minute he had both feet on the tarmac, and before Peter had even had a chance to verbalise his 'What!?', he had spun away from the car and put two bullets in the creature, stopping its thrashing once and for all.

Peter just watched, feeling like his brain had stalled at the image of Phil with a gun and his suit, looking like every spy flick hero ever.

Phil picked up Clint's bow from the ground before he came back to them, eyes checking over every inch of Peter. He brushed glass out of Peter's hair with a smile, then gave him Clint's bow to hold while he dragged Clint to his unsteady feet. Peter stood, still staring, and now holding on to Clint's most precious thing while he watched Phil check over Clint in the same way. It was heavier than he'd expected, and the string felt like it was vibrating with tension.

"Where's your cane?" Phil asked, letting his voice be muffled by the helicopter instead of trying to shout, and letting Clint read his lips.

"In the car," Clint replied, letting go of Phil's arm and leaning back against the car. "Thanks for the assist." He was grinning like this was the best fun in the world, and Phil had a frown on his face like Clint was being an idiot. That, at least, was all bizarrely normal.

Phil stepped away around the car, and reappeared with Clint's cane and Peter's school bag. "Any chance you'll listen if I tell you to take cover? You're not driving this thing home," Phil patted the top of the battered car. The backdraft of the helicopter making another pass made the still-open passenger door creak, and the alien insect thing twitch.

"It's like you don't know me at all," Clint replied, taking his bow off Peter. It felt like he was giving up something important, so he picked up his bag from where Phil had dropped it at his feet, and put it over his shoulders, gripping the straps tightly for something to hold on to.

Phil glanced up at the helicopter, "You know I can't take you up, Clint. If I leave you with the scene, will you..."

"Sure," Clint grinned, hefting his bow. "We'll guard the alien mayfly."

"It's a crane fly," Phil objected. "Mayflies are..." He shook his head. "Well, it's alien, anyway."

Clint glanced up as the helicopter made another pass. "Do we know where they came from?"

Phil shook his head. "Debriefing later, Clint. I need to..." he pointed upwards.

Almost as one, they both looked back at Peter. It was slightly creepy, but Clint's next question was- "How are you doing?" which was normal enough. Peter wondered what his face looked like, whether Clint could see his jack-rabbiting heart rate. There was a broad grin that he couldn't seem to shift, however hard he tried to force his face serious, and his fingers were twitching for something to do. They were still waiting for an answer, and maybe Peter had waited too long to say anything because Clint was pushing away from the car and reaching a hand towards his shoulder, concern on his face like Peter was about to slide out of his skin or pass out or something.

"I'm fine!" he said, and then coughed on the manic edge, "Fine, I mean... Yeah." He cleared his throat and Phil shook his head.

He put his finger on the button of the walkie unit that was clipped to his belt, feeding into an over-ear communication's piece, clunky-looking. Very secret agent. "On my way back up," he said, turning away from them to walk into the empty bit of street he'd dropped into. He turned to face them as the sound of the helicopter crescendoed. "Stay safe!" he shouted.

"Keep your head down!" Clint shouted back. Phil shot him a grin and clipped onto a line as it trailed past him, speeding up into the air with his hand high on the line, like he was superman taking off or something.

"What the fuck?" Peter muttered as the helicopter disappeared out of sight, with his boring paper-pushing Dad disappearing into the hold. He flinched as Clint shot him a look. It was going to take some getting used to, having Clint be able to hear him when he wasn't looking. Not that *that* was the biggest thing he needed to get used to right now.

"Alright," Clint said firmly, scanning the suddenly-empty street. There was still traffic on the other carriageway barging out of town, but it was moving now and there were less horns. Around them, a ring of abandoned cars had formed, all the drivers having taken cover. Peter couldn't decide whether it was lucky or unlucky the alien had landed on their car - Clint seemed to know what he was doing, and Phil had even...

He shook his head. He really had no idea what the hell had just happened, other than Phil was apparently a super-spy as well as being a pencil-pusher, and Clint was way better with his bow than his 'trainee coach' position deserved. And also... aliens.

"Peter," Clint's voice was tense, like he'd had to call more than once to get his attention.

"I'm fine," he blurted, taking his eyes off the bug and meeting Clint's frown - his mind recreated the four arrows and two wet-looking holes in its exoskeleton without him having to look again. "Are you sure it's dead?" he asked, focusing on speaking directly at Clint. The familiarity was helpful, he found immediately.

Clint glanced back at it, as if to remind himself. "I'd say so, but if you hear something I don't see, make sure you let me know, alright?"

A gust of wind caught a filmy wing and the bug twitched in his peripheral vision. In the near distance, a huddle of onlookers screamed as one. Peter was plenty glad that Clint jumped as much as he did, an arrow already to his bowstring by the time they'd worked out what had happened and relaxed. They chuckled tensely at one another.

"Okay, great," Clint shook his head. He did another careful scan of the area, and then one of the crowd that was slowly becoming braver, filtering through the cars to the edge of the impromptu barrier. "Okay..." Clint repeated. "Petey, there's a cap and sunglasses in the car, in the glove box. Go put both on for me, and then come stand this side of the car."

The passenger door was still open despite the helicopter's best attempts to blow it shut, and Peter carefully poked through the glass at the glove box catch. He pulled out the sunglasses and fished through documents and CDs for the cap, which was wedged at the back. It had a tatty Yankees logo on the front, and was too big on him when he put it on his head. He swung the door shut and flinched as it didn't quite close - the chassis obviously more buckled than it had originally seemed.

Clint had moved to lean against the driver's side of the car. Peter moved to stand opposite him, realising something was missing as he looked up into the sky. "Where's the mothership gone?" The returning rush of adrenaline had his hands shaking as he pushed the sunglasses on. Clint had a grin on his face, periodically scanning their surroundings and not looking back at where the mothership had taken up most of the skyline. "Clint, what's going on?"

"Looks like another invasion," he offered, still grinning.

"I don't mean... I mean Phil on a helicopter, with a gun and a walkie talkie - he's a retired consultant! He wears a suit and does paperwork as homework. And you! You shot an alien insect out of the sky with arrows!"

"It was already on the..." Clint started, but Peter wasn't finished, the second wave of adrenaline making him vaguely crazy.

"I thought you were like... Army or Airforce or..."

"We never said..." Clint tried again.

"You have a medal. Phil had it framed and you never look at it."

"It's a civilian..."

"I just don't know what to..."

"Peter," Clint broke in sharply, breaking his - admittedly chaotic - train of thought. "Your dad and I used to do this kind of thing." He gestured pointedly at the downed crane fly. "When I got hurt, we both retired, but Phil gets bored easily, and he's damn good at his job, so he started consulting part time. You know all of this, you just didn't know about the..." Clint gestured again, "Aliens," he finished vaguely.

"JUST!? The aliens are pretty major," Peter said.

"Hey, you fought your first alien today, I get it's a lot to take in."

"I don't think..." Peter was distracted by a woman running out of the gathering crowd, followed by a cameraman. "Umm..." he trailed off, pointing, but Clint was already following his distracted gaze.

"Well shit," he muttered.

"Dad," Peter said, "What do we say, what do we..."

"Shit," Clint repeated, and Peter felt he really should be pointing out how Clint was always telling him off for swearing, but Clint looked pretty worried right now, reaching out to grab hold of Peter's shoulder. "I'm Clint for now, Petey. I'm really sorry, I know we said we'd leave it up to you, but right now it's got to be Clint. I'm not letting these guys get hold of you, understand?"

Peter met his gaze and nodded seriously, wrapping his hands tighter around his rucksack straps to stop them shaking. This was happening. This was going to happen. A camera man was going to come and they were going to get asked questions and there was an *alien* on the ground.

The journalist and her cameraman were almost on top of them, carefully stepping around broken road surface and circling the alien. Clint's hands twitched as if he wanted to walk out and meet them, but was reluctant to step away from the car. His cane had disappeared out of sight while Peter hadn't been looking, and he had his bow in front of him, forearms crossed over the upper limb.

"Debbie, please," Clint called out, "The fighting's not over, it's not safe here."

"Hawkeye," she replied, her tone chastising. The greeting gave Peter a physical lurch, and he found himself staring at Clint, mouthing 'Debbie? Hawkeye?' to himself. The pseudonym at least made sense, he'd seen Hawkeye on TV alongside Captain America with her bow and arrows, but Clint *knew* this reporter. "The SHIELD boys have obviously left you and the trainee to monitor the site, they're already calling in the all-clears."

"Anyone hurt?" Clint asked casually.

The woman tutted, shaking her head. "You know I don't have that information, Hawkeye. I'm guessing you weren't expecting to be in the middle of it, given your lack of uniform..."

"These things happen," Clint mused.

"Anything to say about the highly visible apparently earth-based tech that we saw out over the bay today?" she asked, barely pausing for breath. The camera swung in closer, but Clint didn't flinch.

"I wouldn't know anything about current operations, Debbie. You know I'm not active any more."

She looked slightly disappointed at that, lips narrowing. "So!" she started again, tone bright. "This is one of your Young Avengers in training. We've not seen much of you in the last few years - how is your training role going?"

The camera was suddenly pointed at Peter, and he ducked his head instinctively, trying to hide himself behind his cap.

"Leave the kid alone, Debbie." Clint's voice was almost a growl, and the journalist lowered her hand held microphone slightly.

"The last images we got of you in action were bad, Hawkeye," she said, more softly this time. The camera was suddenly pointed at the insect, the camerman taking a few steps away from the conversation. "It's hard to see someone else carrying your bow. It would be nice to get the 'superheroes live forever' byline."

"Do it without putting the camera on the kid," Clint shot back, "He deserves anonymity until he has a mask to use."

"We won't use anything close, nothing he can be identified from," she grinned in a way that made Peter think of sharks.

Clint's lips quirked, and he nodded as the camera swung back around to him. "I'm enjoying training the younger recruits," he said, voice come over all formal. "But a chance to get back in the action - like today - is always good fun. Any kid who thinks they have something to offer their city should approach their local group. Don't make an attempt to go it alone. Even superheroes need a team."

The journalist smiled, and turned to face her cameraman, lining up the shot with the insect as backdrop. Clint kept position, hip resting against the car, as they threw together a closing link, and smiled as Debbie lent in to kiss his cheek.

Peter missed what she said in close, not sure that Clint would have caught it either given his hearing aids had disappeared some time between the camera appearing and Peter's last glance in his direction, but Clint just nodded his reply and left them to it as the cameraman pulled out a big digital SLR that had Peter drooling a little bit and started taking still shots of the insect, of Clint and his car, of the surrounding architecture.

Dazed, and seriously confused, Peter just lent back against the car and watched it happen.

\--

The police had finally turned up and started moving the observers on, shifting cars and setting up a diversion and controlling the now-hoard of journalists and photographers. There was a set of barriers surrounding the alien and Clint's car, but Peter and Clint hadn't been questioned or disturbed at all.

He was still debating exactly how strange that was, when a limo broke the cordon with a single badge-flash. Peter stood up from the crouch he'd fallen into as the adrenaline had finally worn off. Clint was still standing up against the car door, scanning their surroundings carefully.

Clint looked over at him first, then spotted the limo as it rolled up alongside them. The driver got out, and Peter could tell from Clint's grin that it was a friend. For the first time, it occurred to Peter to wonder why Phil and Clint never seemed to have friends over. Maybe it was because they were all super-secret-spies, and they couldn't be seen together outside of super-secret-spy business. Peter shook his head, knowing he was too tired to really process any of this.

Clint pushed away from the car, collapsing the bow that he'd been holding ready in his hand and grinned at Peter. "Happy's our ride," he said. "Time to go."

Peter looked back, worried about leaving behind the alien, only to find a platoon of black-clad Agents had taken over the police perimeter around the alien's body.

"When did they get here?" he hissed at Clint.

"Can you pick up my case?" Clint said instead of replying. "The car isn't coming home for a while."

Peter picked up the bow case and stepped away as the perimeter expanded to include the car.

Clint had an arm around the driver's shoulder, looking like greeting between old friends as they ambled back towards the car, and it took Peter a beat to notice Clint's cane stuck out of his quiver like an oddly shaped arrow.

Clint waited for Peter to climb past him into the back of the car, chatting with Happy about some TV drama or something over the roof of the limo as he rested on the open door. He carefully stowed his folded bow before climbing in after him. The inside of the limo was just like Peter had been expecting - soft leather seats all the way around the edge with breaks for a little bar and a television. The driver's end had a mirrored screen that slid down as they started moving, showing Happy in the driver's seat. Clint had taken the seat directly behind Happy, still talking about their show.

Peter slid round all the seats, trying to find his favourite, reading through the names of all the bottles in the bar and flicking the TV on, then off again. Delayed curiosity had him checking to see that Clint's hearing aids were back in, his quiver by his feet and his bow laid across his lap, looking vaguely insectile itself in its folded form. He moved to the seat next to Clint, jittering in place.

Clint turned to look, offered him a smile and hooking an arm around his shoulder to pull him close. "So Happy, this is Peter," he said, half interrupting Happy in the way he did sometimes when he wasn't tracking someone else's speech great.

"Nice to meet you, kid," Happy said.

"Is your name really Happy?" Peter asked, hoping Happy didn't think Clint was being rude, interrupting him.

"Good as, these days," he chuckled. "The others are meeting back at the Tower, Tony said he'd make sure he got hold of Agent... Phil, sorry."

Clint was fiddling with one hearing aid, and Peter was fairly sure he wasn't picking up much of what Happy was saying at all. "Are we going to the tower?" he asked, "If the others are going to be there, and Phil?" Happy was going to think he was weird, parroting him back, but Clint's eyes had dropped to his lips so at least he knew what was going on.

"Yeah, kid," Harry said, glancing in the rear-view at him. "Your... Clint not hearing much right now, huh? I guess it's a pretty loud engine in this thing." Clint looked at the back of Happy's head, frowning, and glanced back at Peter.

"Nah, I don't think so," he offered neutrally.

The limo pulled to an abrupt stop - Peter grabbing hold of Clint as he slid towards him, both of them ending up piled against the screen that separated them from Happy. Clint had an arrow in one hand and his bow extended in the other despite the small space, and Peter shuffled back down the seats to give him room. The door slid open, and a woman slid inside.

"Evening, Agent Romanoff," Happy greeted a little faintly, in a way that made Peter wonder how the woman had stopped the car. The woman didn't reply, but Clint's arrow was already back in his quiver and his bow was folded across his lap again. She closed the door behind her.

"What were you thinking?" the woman demanded as the limo pulled away, her hands moving in the effortless way Phil signed at home. She was still crouching in the empty space of floor inside the door.

Clint shook his head, but didn't bother signing when he replied; "I was thinking Phil needed a ride home, with Lola in the shop." Peter thought he maybe sounded tired. It was partly reassuring to think that maybe Clint was coming off the adrenaline just as hard as he was. "I didn't know anything else was going on, Tasha," he continued. "I promise."

She glared at him severely for a beat more, long enough for Peter to realise that she was super-model gorgeous and also covered with dust and what looked like blood, then nodded, obviously taking his word for it. She turned on Peter straight afterwards, and he found himself cringing back at her sudden and avid grin. "Hi!" she said, "I'm your Aunt Tasha." She signed at him as well, and Peter tried to remember her sign-name, but couldn't pick it out with 'Aunt' in there somewhere as well. She finished by thrusting a hand under his nose. He shook it politely, trying to remember if Clint had ever mentioned a sister.

They didn't look much alike, really. She was... flawless, striking, sexy... His mind had wandered and he forced himself to pull back his hand. And Clint was... Well... Clint.

Clint was shaking his head, with a; "Really, Natasha?"

"Hmm... Hi? I'm Peter," Peter replied, trying to cover up his fluster, and flushed with embarrassment when he realised she probably knew exactly who he was.

She didn't say anything about that, though. She just gave him a serious look and said; "Thanks for taking care of Clint today, Peter. I know it's not what you signed up for."

Peter didn't remember signing up for anything, and he was fairly sure Clint hadn't needed his help, but watching Natasha sign was mesmerising even if he only knew a handful of words in ASL, so he just nodded. Natasha patted him on the arm and then took the seat nearest the door, looking out of the front of the limo past Happy's head.

"So Clint," Happy called from the front, "How does the Challenger drive?"

Clint and Natasha signed back and forth a couple of times and Peter was beginning to think they might have both missed Happy's question - or be rudely ignoring him - when Clint replied; "Pretty good when there wasn't an alien Mayfly in the windscreen," with a sigh. "All that work..."

"Sounded like Mr. Stark had some plans to get it off SHIELD for you, once they've cleared it." Happy added.

Natasha's hands were still moving, and Peter guessed she was translating. She added out-loud; "You know Tony's going to give it back to you jet-powered and filled with an AI, right?"

"I'll make sure to thank him when we get to the Tower. How's he been?" Clint asked, "Since he gave up the suit."

Natasha shot him a sharp look, and Peter tensed, but Clint was looking Happy's way. "You're not supposed to know..." She stopped and shook her head, relaxing. "Worse. Pepper had some fairly unreasonable expectations, but I think everyone was a bit disappointed."

Clint shrugged, but he looked pretty pleased with himself. "You'd think a house full of Avengers and all their tech demands would be enough to keep any genius engineer busy."

"How many side projects did you pick up this year?" she asked in reply, eyebrow raised.

"Okay, point taken," Clint conceded.

Peter briefly choked on his own tongue as all the facts of the day finally descended on his brain in the right order and caused a pile-up.

"You're..." he said, pointing at Natasha dumbly. "And Tony Stark... Because... ALIENS!" He knew he wasn't making sense. He could hear himself not making sense, and Clint looked worried as he reached out and pulled Peter back into the seat next to him. "Avengers," he whispered into the side of Clint's neck, glancing at Natasha for confirmation. She was grinning at him.

He pulled back far enough for Clint to see him. "How did I not know you were an Avenger!?" he demanded, thumping him on the arm. "I mean..." he flailed his arms, and Clint tracked them as if he was trying to read sign in Peter's frustrations. "Hawkeye!" he managed eventually.

That, at least, brought a grin to Clint's face. "You know Hawkeye's a girl, right?" he asked.

"Everyone knows the titles get passed on when... when you retire." Peter fell quiet, his brain buzzing between watching Clint make his unsteady way around their home and sitting on the bus laughing at some sick off-hand joke that didn't even make sense.

"Petey, you alright?" Clint asked, turning in his seat. "I know that this is..." but the car was already stopping and he sighed. "Are you alright?" he pressed.

"Yeah," Peter nodded, finding it hard to meet Clint's eyes.

Natasha was already climbing out of the limo, Clint's bow and quiver in her hands. Clint nearly fell out of the door towards her, and Peter worried about him hitting the ground for long enough to see how effortlessly Natasha had kept him on his feet. Peter thought about saying something, but was distracted by their surroundings.

They had pulled into a parking garage full of beautiful cars, limos, monster trucks and SUVs.

"Woah," he breathed.

"Pretty great, huh? Yeah, I like it." Tony Stark - THE Tony Stark - was stood next to Natasha and Clint, Happy at his shoulder. He was grinning like Peter had just paid him the best compliment. "Hey Hawkguy," he slapped at Clint's shoulder. "Nice to see you with a bow again. And... you know... upright." He started walking backwards, still talking and obviously expecting the others to follow. They did, leaving Happy behind with the limo. "JARVIS was showing me some footage. We've missed you out there. Widow was almost inconsolable. She doesn't like splitting the female energy, you know?"

"Shut up, Stark," Natasha interrupted.

He grinned and turned to walk forwards, leading them into an elevator that was standing open in the corner. Now that he wasn't talking a mile-a-minute, Peter had time to notice the ratty T-shirt he was wearing, and the stiff way he was walking. He wondered how rough the height of the alien fighting action must have been, for him to be hurt inside the suit. He always figured Iron Man as kinda invulnerable.

Tony was quiet until they were in the elevator, leaning against the mirrored wall as if thankful of the support. He waited until Clint had taken up station in the other corner of the elevator, one hand and his hip propped against the handrail before continuing; "How's suburbia?" with a secretive grin. Tasha pressed against Clint's other shoulder, wedging him in the corner.

Peter had always assumed the Avengers were just a group of guys (and girls) who got together when they were needed but otherwise lived separate lives with cover identities and jobs... There were comic books where they didn't even know each others cover identities - where they never took their costumes off around each other. But Tony *knew* Clint. Knew where he lived and didn't comment when he fell out of cars and knew to face him square before talking to him and... It kind of blew his mind. This was one of Clint's *friends*.

\--

The elevator didn't even feel like it moved, but the door opened to another room, and Phil standing with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for them.

"So Phil," Clint said, tone sharp, pushing past Natasha to the elevator door. "Tell me again about this part time desk job you're doing."

Phil's face was neutral and calm, the kind of expression Peter was starting to recognise as heading for angry. "Forty two people died on the helicarrier today, Clint, and Hill is trying to explain to the Mayor why the SHIELD base was seen over the bay - in direct contravention of our agreement - because Fury's still in medical with a concussion."

"The mothership is ours?" Peter gasped, looking to Tasha for confirmation.

Phil barely took a breath in his retort. "The helicopter needed another crewman, so I stepped up because I found out that you and my son were in the middle of the city in the predicted path of the fighting. Do *not* make a big fuss over this right now, alright?"

"Shit, Phil," Clint muttered, crossing the distance between them and tugging him close. He beckoned Peter over and pulled him into an awkward hug between the two of them, ignoring Peter's pointed look of distaste. He might have appreciated the reassurance, but he was a teenager, he wasn't *allowed* to enjoy hugs from his family.

"You guys have some explaining to do," he muttered into Phil's shoulder, surrendering to the hug for a moment before pulling away.

Tony and Natasha had stepped away discretely and were having an animated conversation about something which involved a lot of gun gestures. They both glanced over at Peter as if they'd noticed the family hug breaking up, and Clint and Phil stepped to flank him as Tony called them through into the next room from the entryway they'd converged in.

The next room was a lounge - filled with sofas and square stools and odd-shaped tables that might have been modern art, but were half-covered with comedy drinks coasters.

There were already a handful of people in the room - Steve Rogers and James Rhodes very recognisable from their TV campaigns and news reports, and Mrs Potts who'd been a project in Peter's business class.

They were all greeted sincerely by the tired-looking superheroes, and Mrs. Potts got up to give Tasha and Clint hugs before dragging Tony off to a seat on the other side of the room. Clint took a seat next to Captain Rogers and started up a friendly conversation about the stray crane fly that had nearly crashed on top of them. Phil sat on a square stool facing the two of them, a pleased look on his face. He'd glanced back at Peter and patted the stood beside his own, but Peter was feeling contrary after the enforced family hug and so followed Natasha over to where Colonel Rhodes had a laptop open and was tapping away.

He looked up and gave them both a nod in greeting. Natasha didn't interrupt him though, turning to Peter and asking about school. While Peter searched for something interesting enough to tell a superhero about his day at school, his eyes glanced over Clint in time to see him narrow his eyes at the two of them. He was darkly happy to see him lose track of his conversation with the Captain and have to ask him to repeat himself with a familiar sheepish expression.

He wasn't entirely sure how he went from casual conversation to, minutes later, confessing to his new-found Aunt all about the school-bus behaviour, even if it had been right on the tip of his tongue for months now.

"Aw, sweetie, did you really think you were getting away with that?" Natasha somehow managed to look amused and pitying at the same time. "Clint doesn't miss much," she added, leaning into his space as if sharing a secret.

Peter thought he might be having palpitations, his heart rate suddenly a mile a minute. "But he can't hear..." he started, glancing at his dads sat talking with Captain America. "I mean, he never wears his hearing aids. I never even knew he had them until today."

Natasha was shaking her head. "Clint's spent as many years as you've been alive convincing people who wanted him dead that he could hear just fine. He lip-reads professionally, and he reads body language just as easily. He knew what was going on."

Peter risked another glance across the room at Clint and found him watching the two of them, a wry grin on his face. When he noticed Peter looking he shrugged apologetically.

"Shit," he muttered.

Peter knew the signs that Clint shot his way meant something along the lines of 'stop swearing', but he wasn't sure exactly how it translated. Phil looked over his shoulder at them and Natasha put both hands up in surrender at his narrow-eyed glare, then pointed at Peter.

"Tattle-tail," Peter grumbled, turning in his seat so that he was facing only Natasha, hiding his lips from Clint.

"So..." Natasha continued, as if nothing else had happened. "Is that why you told your teacher that they wouldn't be able to make the parent-teacher conference?"

Peter withered. "How do you know that!?"

"Natasha, stop. This isn't the time or the place." Clint's hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. With a sharp gut-clench, Peter realised Natasha had been facing Clint, and now he knew what *else* Peter had done.

It was irrational for him to have more of a reaction to this than the day's misadventure, but Peter suddenly felt desperately like he wanted his bed to hide in. To not be sat in front of all these people he didn't know, all Phil and Clint's friends, and be faced with fact that he'd been embarrassed by these two people who had taken him in and kept him.

Fortunately he was saved digging himself any deeper by a booming voice, echoing down the corridor as it declared; "Come brother, Lady Hawkeye insists we socialise!"

Tony was on his feet and on his way to the door, interrupting himself mid-flow, and Phil was on his feet not long after, heading towards Clint. Peter watched Natasha's face, trying to decide if he needed to move, but before he could decipher the expression she was shooting Clint, a huge blond guy charged into the room, nearly dragging a skinny black-haired guy behind him. They were followed by a girl who didn't look much older than Peter, though he thought she probably was older, if she was Hawkeye like he figured from the other guy's comment.

He was distracted from analysing from analysing her uniform and her bow and the shape of the quiver on her back by Tony stepping in front of the three of them as if to block their path and Clint turning so sharply that Phil had to grab his arm to stop him tipping.

There was an awkward breathless moment where it felt like everything might explode from the tension and then the blond guy's hand dropped from the other guy's shoulder. There was a beat of silence and then the dark-haired guy literally *disappeared*.

Clint's eyes were on Peter, like he wanted to grab him and run, and he'd shaken off Phil's supporting arm, one hand braced on the arm of the sofa.

Phil looked straight up and said; "JARVIS, confirm Loki's new location for me?"

Peter jumped as a disembodied voice replied; "Mr. Loki has returned to his rooms. I apologise for not averting that meeting, Agent Coulson."

Clint had dropped into the sofa opposite Peter, Hawkeye crossing the room towards him. Phil was there a beat later, the two of them talking at once, glaring over Clint's head as if trying to get the other to stop. Clint wasn't looking at either of them, eyes on Peter, so he got up and moved to sit on the arm of the chair, taking hold of a grasping hand that was thrust his way.

Phil and Hawkeye fell quiet, and she huffed a breath. Peter wasn't really sure what was going on, other than knowing Clint was shaken by seeing 'Loki', whoever he was. The guy Peter was pretty sure was Thor had walked with Tony to another seat and was glancing their way intermittently, looking dejected.

Phil took Peter's abandoned seat facing Clint, signing a silent 'sorry'. Clint gave a dismissive motion with his free hand and forced a grin. He gestured that Hawkeye should sit next to him, leaning to shoulder-bump her as she settled. "Hey Hawkeye," he said conspiratorially, his tense smile turning into something more amused, though his grip on Peter's hand didn't ease much.

"Hey Hawkeye," she said back, signing too. Her mirroring smile faded almost immediately, and she shook her head. "Damn, I'm so sorry, Clint. Noone told me you were..."

"Hey," Clint interrupted. He squeezed Peter's hand and then released it as if he'd only just realised he was clinging. He glanced up at him, apologetic. "I hadn't realised he'd moved into the tower," he said, but then shook his head. "No, that's bull. I just hadn't thought about him being here. I shouldn't be... This shouldn't be a problem."

"I should have warned you," Phil broke in. "He doesn't normally spend any time in the common areas."

"Oh? And you'd know that how?" Clint chuckled before Phil could answer. "I shouldn't be such a Princess about this. He has more right to be here than I do."

"Who was that?" Peter asked when Clint glanced his way again. He was talking over the other two's denials, but he knew he had Clint's attention right then.

"They are the Princes of Asguard, Thor and Loki." The tone of Clint's voice left no doubt which one had disappeared away. "They're both Avengers, but Loki and I have... history." Phil and Hawkeye both snorted their disapproval sharply, and Clint's lips curled. "Pretty major history."

"Clint, he threw a car at you," Hawkeye pointed out, but Clint hadn't looked away from Peter, examining his face with intensity.

"I don't want him near you, you understand? You see him in the street, call your Dad and get somewhere safe. Not that you'll always..."

"Clint," Phil had reached out to brush fingers over Clint's wrist, pulling his attention. He waited until Clint looked his way before saying; "Peter's well protected. Loki didn't even look his way." Clint swallowed more than once, holding Phil's gaze.

Peter was suddenly deeply chilled by Clint's reaction, in a way he hadn't been when it had first happened. This was looking more and more like a panic attack, and Peter didn't know what to do to help.

Phil hadn't moved, though, and neither had Hawkeye, like they hadn't even noticed that Clint was folding his hands together so tight his knuckles were white. Their little circle of chairs was a silent corner in amongst the noise of a room full of people, and could no one see what was happening here?

Clint breathed out slowly through his nose, fingers twitching twice before unfolding and pulling his hearing aids out, reaching for Phil's hand and folding them inside. "Do you mind?" he asked, "They're making me antsy."

Phil smiled and shook his head, and Peter forced himself to unfold from the chair arm and walk back to his seat between Phil and Natasha. She offered him a friendly smile, continuing her discussion with Rhodes about aerial surveillance like nothing had happened. Like nothing was happening. He tried to track the conversation and watch Clint at the same time, wondering what exactly "history" entailed.

\--

Peter wandered in and out of a handful of conversations over the next hour or so, everything from military uniform to the latest episode of the X-factor, feeling dazed and confused at his surroundings and the people he was sharing space with. He told Thor - God of Thunder - about his math study group, and listened to Steve Rodgers explain how schools had changed in the last seventy years.

He glanced up and saw that Clint was heading out of the room with Tony Stark, walking stiffly in a way that reminded Peter how hard he'd hit the floor earlier. He headed back to sit next to Phil, irrationally afraid of being left here. Phil broke off his conversation with Mrs. Potts and smiled at Peter as he leant into his side.

He put an arm out in a way that might have been around his shoulder, but that Peter could write off as socially acceptable comfort. "Peter, I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You shouldn't have to deal with... We've tried very hard to keep you away from all this."

"Is Dad alright?" Peter asked, eyes on the door Clint had left by.

"He'll be alright," Phil said, pulling him closer for a moment, holding him tight. "There are some things that he finds very hard to deal with rationally. It's the same with anyone, really. For Clint, Loki is the one thing..."

"Kate," Peter got a little thrill knowing Hawkeye's real name. Both of them. "She said he threw a car at Dad. How does that even..."

"He's working for our team, these days. Everyone here has struggled with that in their own way. It doesn't make the things that were done easier to forget or forgive. Especially not when Clint was a friend, and he's never coming back from what Loki did to him."

"I... I hadn't..."

"I know," Phil said, and Peter wondered if he'd already known about the parent's evening things. He was a super-spy after all. "And we didn't want you to. It's okay."

"So when you told the social workers it was a car accident..."

"We didn't specify if anyone was driving the car," Phil replied defensively. "Or that it was on a road."

\--

The night turned surreal as Tony Stark made an obscene food order from the favourite restaurant of Peter's childhood, and the Avengers and his family sat around a huge table and ate like old friends, arguing over dishes and trading food off plates and hiding whole bags from the ferocious appetites of Asguardians and Super Soldiers. No one mentioned Loki, and he didn't turn up for food. Everyone around the table signed haphazardly, half the punchlines weren't in English, some sentences never got finished and some were finished by someone else, occasionally by everyone at once.

Peter let it all drift over him, listening to Hawkeye - to Kate - ask Phil about Lucky, Thor demand that Rhodey explain the cultural significance of the game Charades and Steve Rodgers hold a quiet conversation with Clint and Natasha about the armour improvements that Tony had been making to the team's uniforms.

He would have denied being tired to his last breath, but he didn't remember falling asleep when he woke in the back seat of an unfamiliar car. They were on the interstate, and Phil and Clint were signing silently across the front seat, the engine noise muted in the way of very expensive cars. The leather underneath his cheek was warm, and the seat he was belted into was the most comfortable he'd ever known. He fell asleep again almost immediately.

Phil woke him an indeterminate time later, and he heard the sleepy noise of disapproval he made with a faint sense of embarrassment. His bag was taken and handed out of the car, his belt undone as he was coaxed to the seat edge.

"I'm not carrying you," Phil chuckled. "I leave that kind of thing to the super soldiers."

The cold air was leeching into the car through the open door, and Peter was fairly sure that no matter how hard he tried, Phil wasn't going to let him curl back up and sleep in the car. He stumbled on sleep-numbed legs through the door that Clint was holding open, to slump on the bottom step of the stairs, seriously tempted to sleep right there.

Clint ruffled his hair, handing over his school bag. Peter pulled it under his head as a pillow. "Sorry we left so late, Petey," he said. "But you've got to go to bed. School tomorrow."

"Can't I skip?" Peter moaned theatrically, not bothering to lift his head from his lumpy pillow and tucking himself into a smaller space on the bottom stair.

Clint toppled gracelessly down onto his usual spot on the next step up to take his boots off, and Peter squawked at the perceived near-miss. Tugging his legs out from under Clint's, he gathered up his bag and put his head down on the next step up, folded into an awkward U.

"Come on, Petey." Phil picked up his bag from the stair and stepped over both of them. "Bed."

In the end, Peter conceded that a bed would be more comfortable. He waited until Clint had his indoor shoes on, cane stowed in the ridiculous coat rack by the door, and hugged him goodnight before heading up the stairs.

\--

It was funny, really. The adrenaline thing. It felt like more of a rush right now, knowing what he was planning to do on the bus into school, than it had been watching an alien mayfly scream out of the sky towards him.

The bus slowly filled, early morning dullness and lethargy abounding. A couple of the louder kids got on and settled towards the back, and Peter thought it was just about busy enough for what he had planned.

He turned in his seat and flicked a hand across Clint's book, dragging his attention up. A couple of the kids around him made noises of disbelief - none of them had ever got Clint's attention before. It was outside their normal parameters.

"What time is Dad getting in tonight?" he asked, and signed - willing his hands steady through the adrenaline jitters that were already setting in.

Clint gave him a long, amused look, but didn't look around the bus at their suddenly, silently attentive audience. "About five," he replied, book dropping to his lap to free up his hands. "If he doesn't get held up at work," he added, with a shadow of a grin.

"Cool," Peter said, and grimaced, signing 'OK' because he hadn't thought that far ahead. He turned back in his seat, ignoring the hissed whispering of 'Did you...' and 'I don't even...' going on in the back of the bus.

He turned to the wide-eyed kid in the seat next to him. "Do you have an appointment for the parent-teacher conference yet?" he asked, hoping beyond hope he hadn't just ruined his school life for the rest of history.

"Dude, was that sign language?" the guy asked instead of answering. "Can you teach me some?"

Peter grimaced. "Sure," he said amiably. He could fob the guy off with the words he knew and ask Phil for some lessons when he got home.

The bus pulled into Clint's stop, and he reached forward and messed up Peter's hair before walking down the aisle to the front. Peter risked a look as the bus pulled away, and Clint watched him go with a stupid grin on his face.

Peter rolled his eyes before turning back to his conversation. Parents were so ridiculous.


End file.
